Stiletto
by Robinola
Summary: Andy Sachs clicked her pen. "Now, let's start this interview with the one question you probably haven't been asked in years. What is your name?" In response, Miranda Priestly smiled slowly. "Do you want the truth, or a believable story?"
1. The Invitation

Nonstandard Disclaimer: I swore to myself that I would stop writing fanfic, and start writing original works. However, I couldn't seem to stop this story from filling my mind, demanding to be written.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

And now, with no further delay, I present Stiletto

Chapter One: The Invitation

It was, in fact, a perfectly lovely day in mid-October, the kind where the leaves are still colorful, the air is clear and dry so the sun shines and the leaves crunch underfoot. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening in lower Manhattan. Miranda Priestly blazed her usual scorching path through the Elias-Clark building and into her office, the nexus of Runway, sat down at her desk after chucking her coat and bag at her new secondary "Emily." Immediately after, she sprang to her feet. With her heart pounding in her throat, La Priestly, the terror of fashion stared at the small postcard on her desk as though it were a venomous snake.

"Emily!" She nearly shouted the name. "How did this get here?"

The real Emily responded as she darted into the office in response to the summons. "Oh. It was the only thing in the mail for you today. It came from some newspaper, The Mirror, I think."

"Yes, obviously," Miranda snapped, although she had not touched it at all, let alone looked at the other side for the address, as she knew exactly who had sent it. "See to it that I am free that entire day. That's all."

"You were scheduled for vacation that week. You always are," Emily blinked, "with no calls allowed for any reason."

"Yes, of course. Now get out."

Emily left, looking shocked at such unusually harsh phrasing, and the silver haired fashion icon sagged down into her seat, staring at the card once again. It had a nice gold border, and the other side probably looked like an envelope, neatly filled out with only the addresses of the Mirror and Runway to accompany the stamp. Miranda then reread it, slowly this time.

_Miranda~_

_I would like to interview you about the time before you went by Miriam Princhek, at 9:40 AM on November 10, on the assumption that you will be available at that time. I will leave location to your discretion; feel free to contact me or my office to arrange this._

_~A.S._

The note was perfectly polite, and even innocuous to the casual observer. Truly the perfect piece of blackmail. No force on earth could have kept Miranda from arranging and arriving at this meeting. She would, in fact, even tell the damned reporter everything she wanted to know, once there.

"Fuck that girl's efficiency," Miranda hissed to herself, "God, I'm glad I already have—"

In the ensuing days and weeks between the card's arrival and the appointed interview, Miranda's behavior towards every single person she encounters, employee, friend, random stranger, friend, enemy, or employer fully crossed the line from merely cruel and icy to outright savage and abusive. The only exception is her daughters. They are petted, spoilt, and adored with a certain quality of near hysteria the girls had previously only noted as occurring during divorce proceedings. They worry without knowing why, as their mother has fully completed that process with worthless husband number two, and is not currently dating anyone.

On November 10, Andy Sachs is dropped at the door of the Priestly townhouse itself at precisely 9:30 AM by one of Miranda's personal limo drivers. The instant Andy closed the large door behind her, Miranda shoved her against it with one hand on the back of the girl's neck, the barrel of a pistol forcing her chin up uncomfortably.

"I want the full names of every person who knows exactly why I would agree to this interview."

"Gary Ludwig, my boss, knows who I talked to in Southwark. You'll recall the now retired nurse Julia Stevens, well, now it's actually Weston, she got married."

"By which you mean that if you shoot you, he will interview her over the phone before I can get to her in even the fastest of jets," Miranda snarled, not liking the calm tone of her opponent.

"You got it. He even knows I'm here. Please, can we sit down somewhere and talk like normal human beings now?"

"I really can't imagine I can talk to a blackmailer in any comfortable manner, but by all means, yes, we may retreat to my study."

Miranda led the way, sitting behind the large walnut desk and laying her gun across the card which was the only thing on the gleaming surface except for a framed professional photograph of her with her twins. Andy pulled a chair up to the opposite side and laid a small digital voice recorder on the desk, halfway between the edge and the gun. Miranda's lips thinned.

"Well. Ask a question."

"I prefer to start with a statement. While I worked for you," Andy said as she pressed the buttons needed to turn the recorder on, "I researched nearly everything written about you. Nobody went back farther than Miriam Princhek, aged sixteen, changing her address from Lambsly Isle to London and her name to Miranda Priestly. So I went to the island, once I was a report with enough clout to ask for funds, and asked about you. Those who remembered told me about a girl who had only been there for a year, who had arrived unable to speak English, who had been nameless before her boyfriend, Orthodox Jew and fisherman's son, Aaron Alderman, began to call you Miriam. True journalistic gold, somehow unpursued by any reporter before me. So, my first question is one the rest of the world constantly asks of everyone but you: What is your name?"


	2. The Interview

Author's Note: I'll admit I'm picking chapter breaks not by sensible lengths, or reasonable cut offs, but interesting cliff hangers. I would say I am sorry for that, but no, I want you in suspense, wondering whatever could come next.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Two: The Interview

"_What is your name?"_

Miranda felt a faint smile form on her face as she let the first question hang in the air for a brief moment. Then she said, "Mpalaysia," which she then of course had to repeat several times before Andrea could even remotely pronounce it correctly. The girl was full of questions, as the older woman expected.

"Is any part of that a surname? If not, what was your last name? How is that spelled?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Andrea, of course there is no last name," Miranda interrupted irritably, "and it certainly was never written down before today. You'll have to decide how to do that, aside from the fact that it clearly starts with the MP sound, which I've taken for my initials, since."

"I don't understand, Miranda. How did you come to have such a name? Where are you from? Africa? Some Siberian Saami tribe? What language did you speak before that boy taught you English?"

"I certainly have always gotten along very well with models and designers from all kinds of interesting backgrounds like those. There is definitely value in being able to pronounce such names properly."

"I'm sure. But seriously, are you trying to bullshit me because I'm blackmailing you? Surely you know my boss expects a story he can print. I'm sure we both want it to be the story of the mystery girl on the island, not the scandalous but ordinary experience she had afterward."

Miranda narrowed her eyes at the brunette in front of her. "This is why I detest journalists in a manner most people reserve for lawyers. I like lawyers. They've always been very good to me."

"Due to professional courtesy among sharks, no doubt," Andy tried to laugh at her own lame joke, but only opened and closed her mouth.

Miranda filled the silence. "Au contraire, Andrea. It is journalists who go about nibbling on anything that moves, and are driven into a frenzy at the slightest hint of blood in the water. Lawyers protect even those they despise. Now. I can give you the truth, or I can give you a believable story. Which do you want?"

"I suppose the truth can be stranger than fiction," Andy concedes, "so let's at least start with what you consider to be the truth."

"Very well then. What was your last question, again?" Miranda leaned back in her elegant chair.

"What is your native language?"

"I'm afraid it did not have a name."

"Hmm. Did your name have some kind of meaning?"

"Indeed. It meant she who stares at the surface."

Andy snorted. "How very prophetic your mother was."

"Not at all. Generally, we earned our names with our characteristics. Most names and terms in that language were descriptive in nature. Rocks were hard things, cliffs were rock barriers, we were known for where we liked to be, or look at. We wouldn't say a word that meant harbor, but instead the place where boats gather. Whales were the singing giants, dolphins were the small squeaking creatures of joy. Crabs were round things that pinched, lobsters long things that pinched. I believe we simply called shrimp tasty. A stretch of coastline would be named by making the sound the waves usually made as they hit the shore there, rather than for any discoverer."

Andy noticed the dreamy, distant expression on Miranda's face, but reluctantly decided to proceed anyhow. "How poetic. Where did you grow up?"

"Oh, we traveled a lot, obviously, but as I recall, we did end up in the area between England and Ireland most often." Miranda began to look more comfortable with the interview.

"How could you possibly have spent your childhood traveling between those countries and be entirely ignorant of the English language when found as a castaway on a British island?" Andy frowned, wondering if answers like these were the real reason nobody interviewed the woman.

"You think I mean that I had a family that alternated between living on Irish or English soil?" Miranda raised an eyebrow.

"Isn't that what you just said?" Andy repressed a sigh.

"Not at all. I said we lived between those islands. I never sat foot on land till I was fifteen and washed up on Lambsly." A faint smile grew on the patrician face, half way between pain and nostalgia.

Andy gaped at her. "That's impossible! What were you, a gypsy on a ferry?"

"The Roma are far too interested in their own heritage to not have given me a last name, Andrea."

"Right, yes, the Roma. Proper names." Andy found the older woman's faintly mocking tone something of a relief, a return to the normal. "Please be serious, though. What are you saying here?"

"I never explained why I hired you, did I?"

"Hmm, I wouldn't say that. I certainly will never forget you calling me the smart, fat, girl. So, yes, you did tell me something along those lines."

"That, Andrea, was part of the believable lie we aren't discussing yet, as you want the truth, instead. I hired you on the possibility you were a selkie. I've always been fond of selkies."

"Wait, what? You thought I was a mythical shape-shifting sea creature?" Andy was almost yelling.

"Honestly, Andrea, you must know that you have selkie's eyes. Not that they look right, unless they are swimming with unshed tears. It pained me to keep you so unhappy, but obviously I couldn't help myself."

"Really, Miranda? Has it escaped your attention that you are cruel to everyone?"

"Of course not. i"m just saying that I was fond of you, and merely preferred to see you in tears. I suppose you are rarely told how lovely you look when your eyes are wet with tears, but really, I'm sure you've never gotten a speeding ticked when you cried after being pulled over, and that arguments tend to end the moment you cry?"

"Well, yeah, I guess, but Miranda, what is the point of this? I wasn't asking what mythological crap you believe in. Can we get back to your childhood, or whatever?"

"Very well. There's no need to be rude about it. I'm fond of selkies because I knew them, lived with them in the sea, and envied the way they could choose between land and sea at will."

"What precisely are you saying here, Miranda?" Andy pinched the bridge of her nose, beyond glad that she was recording this, rather than trying to take notes. She probably, however, need more than audio proof of what was being said. God, why hadn't she gone into television, so there would be a nice, high quality tape recorder present?

"Can I assume you are familiar enough with the works of Hans Christian Anderson to know the original version of the story The Little Mermaid, and not merely the saccharine nonsense by Disney?"

"Fiction, Miranda, not documentary. But, yes, I know both. Obviously there is no way that you were, well, what are you implying?"

"I was disappointed that you weren't actually a selkie who could have contacted a sea witch and had that hurricane diverted. Yes, really. You know what I am implying. Is it so hard to imagine me as a soulless mermaid?" A silver eyebrow rose slightly.

"People may call each other soulless, including you, but even Hitler had a soul."

"It is the defining human characteristic, yes. In your research, have you noted the criticism that I, and by extension Runway has received for the shoes I wear and it portrays? I myself generally wear what would be best termed cruel shoes, Andrea. In other magazines, heels widen and narrow, rise and fall, toes open, close, point, and become rounded. My style has always been the stiletto, as pointy as possible, from heel to toe. I never approve of anyone's shoes until I see the wearer wincing while walking."

"I assumed that the wincing was an expected side effect of wearing what you considered the sexiest shoes. What else? Why are we even talking about this?"

"If I am to feel every step I take is on the edge of a knife's blade, which I do," Miranda offers a razor thin smile, "no matter what I wear on my foot, then I damn well will wear the hottest thing I can. And if I am going to suffer, then so can everyone else. I put those first spikes on your desk, Andrea, and I made sure they were half a size too small, in case the awful spiky toes and needle thin stiletto heels were not enough to do the job."

Andy squirmed in her seat under that clear blue eyed gaze, never quite having realized such eyes could so closely mimic the dead black look of a shark's eyes. "So what if you were a mermaid, hypothetically speaking, because that is ridiculous. How did the whole soulless, dissolving into sea foam thing work, anyhow?"

"You haven't the faintest idea what a soul is, do you?" In a patronizing tone, of course.

"Nobody does, Miranda, honestly. I cannot believe we are sitting here, talking about souls and myths because you, of all people, brought them up."

"I however," Miranda continued as though the younger woman had not spoken at all, "know exactly what a soul is. I've felt one grow in my own body like a disease. Most people seem to think a soul and being conscious, sentient, or self aware are the same things, but of course they are wrong. A soul doesn't make you good or moral, either." The icon leaned back on one elbow and tapped her chin slightly with one perfectly manicured finger.

"Alright, I can agree with that last part," Andy sighed, resigned to an interview based entirely on tangents. "Go ahead, tell me what you think a soul is."

"A mermaid," Miranda breathed, tilting her chin up to gaze dreamily at the ceiling, "is awareness without a soul, consciousness formed and disolvable. Among us, there were no mermen, no grandmothers, no mothers, no daughters. We were all sisters beneath the waves, brought into being like a knot on a string, an eddy in a current. When you want to see, you open your eyes. When the sea needs to feel joy, it creates a mermaid. We come into awareness like a thought, like a preference for a new food, and call each other what we adore. My sisters sang in the shallows, lurked in sea caves, surfed on icebergs, living our course and fading with our interests. Mermaids who serenaded men in tall sail ships being long gone."

"My God, you have the soul of a poet," Andy murmured, almost unaware of doing so in her utter shock at hearing such a monologue.

"No, Andrea, I am merely glossing over memories. No mermaid was ever separate from her environment. Aware, gloriously aware, but never truly a discrete entity. They are insensible to the souled, no more than an aberrant wave, a slide of kelp, splashing against a rock. Only certain children and those with a poet's soul, or the lonely ache of a sailor dreaming of impossible women may see them, when their soul is a mere membrane, letting them flow for a brief moment in their surroundings as we always did. Even then, we were hardly more than something seen out of the corners of the eye, vanishing with a direct and logical second glance."

"Ah," Andy leant forward, completely enraptured, but still aware of her job. "So what is the soul, normally?"

"The soul is an eggshell, a wall around the mind, the summation of all our barriers between each other, thin or thick. Our souls are the reason we can be cruel to others, or even call anyone other, and use the word I. Every icy act for which I have been called soulless would have been impossible to contemplate when I in fact had no soul. Without a soul, I could simply be, completely absorbed in all I focused on, thoughtless and aware. With a soul, I am self absorbed, appalling, continually drawing lines between myself and others. I was disgusted when I saw your soul growing thicker as you worked for me, till I pointed out your own hardness, slapped you in the face with our similarities. I loved the way you tossed your phone in that fountain."

"You wanted me to leave, in Paris?" Andy couldn't help but express the way she was stunned and confused. "I mean, I thought you hated me now, Miranda."

"Andrea, I blacklist people so that I don't have to bother with seeing them and wanting to hate them. I wanted very much to hate you when I saw that card on my desk, but I'll wait till I see what you publish after today. I've only ever hated one person," Miranda admitted.


	3. Indifference

Author's Note: TRIGGER WARNING: not to give anything away, but this where you find out what Andy is blackmailing Miranda over, and it is not nice. If people being truly awful to other people can mess with you, don't read this one. I will remind you that Andy had interviewed a nurse... so if that gives you any guesses, and it will bother you, consider yourself warned.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Three: Indifference

"_I've only ever hated one person," Miranda admitted._

"Now that is a direct quote that will be even more unbelievable than when you told me you grew up as a mermaid, rather than having a normal childhood."

"Indeed. I'm sure there are plenty of people who yearn desperately for the acknowledgment of my hatred," Miranda smirked, "and would be more honored by being that one exception than you were insulted by my lone compliment."

"And what an uplifting thought that is," Andy groaned, "who do you hate, anyhow? That boy you loved, Aaron Alderman?"

"I have wished at times to hate him, of course, but I can still feel only one emotion for him. I loved him, adored him with all of my being, and can only now feel heartbreak when I think of him. I was young, born only to adore the glittering of the sun on the surface of the deep. It was almost inevitable that I should gaze upon a human, and immediately admire and fixate on his shining body. I loved as only the soulless can, with complete and utter abandon, such as my dog Patricia lavishes on me now. No conditions, warnings or price the sea witch could mention had the power to check my ardor."

"What cost did the sea witch demand?" Andy suddenly remembered the various iterations of the story.

"The price of magic is inherent to it's use, Andrea. She asked for nothing, but I lost what I lost by leaving the sea. I lost all that I was to become what I am now. Even the witch's power could only hold me in a concrete human form for so long; a little less than a year. For him, I was a summer fling, a strange devoted girl he could play teacher with. Only the true love of his soul could have bound me together, creating my own soul in the shelter of his."

"Ok, I have no idea what you are talking about. How would his soul give you a soul?"

"In true love, the lover's soul opens to embrace the beloved. Perhaps only for a time, before ardor fades, but a lover's soul can enfold the beloved within it. The souls of two people in love open to each other, mingle. Surely you have heard people talking about people in love becoming one, in marriage language, Andrea." Miranda ran the earpiece of her reading glasses along her lower lip and gazed into the distance. "At any rate, within his soul, I would have been able to go on living as a human being, rather than dissolving back into the sea, alive or otherwise. My soul would have gradually formed within his, around both of us as we loved. It would have stayed with me even if loved had died after that."

"So if he didn't love you, why are you here, Miranda?" Andy smiled at being able to poke holes in the older woman's absurd tale.

"My son loved me," the silver haired woman stated flatly, and Andy's head popped up up to meet hard blue eyes. "Yes, unborn or not, he loved me with a truly all encompassing ferocity. And I know he was a son, for a girl would have dissolved into the sea with me, calving into another mermaid. Besides, the sea witch's spell on me had said specifically that 'he' had to love me. Therefore, only a male could have bound me within his soul. The day Aaron left for college in the fall, breaking my heart, I ran to the sea. Already, I could feel saltwater on my face as I dissolved—or at least I thought so then, for I had never wept before that day, to have known that I simply tasted my own tears. I could feel my son's soul like a stone in my stomach, an egg around a human fetus. And when my heartbreak was about to shatter me into foam, he loved me, and held me together with his own soul."

Miranda's eyes remained perfectly dry through this recitation, but Andy was holding back sobs with her fist against her mouth. "My God, that's amazing, and horrible. What happened then? You went to London, and I know what you did at the clinic, but how could you?"

"I hated him, Andrea. The only person who ever loved me purely, and I hated him for it, as I will never hate another. I killed him for it, and found my own soul had grown inside his as I held that hatred in a shell within myself."

Andy shook with the kind of sobbing that is close to nausea, appalled. "What about your daughters?" She finally managed to whisper as the older woman calmly watched her master herself several minutes later.

"I am terribly fond of them, and want desperately for them to never hear a single hint of this part of the story, as you can imagine. However, I honestly thought I had been rendered sterile by the procedure—a doctor had told me so some years later, in fact. Otherwise, I would have used birth control with the man who would become their father. I am hardly maternal, as everyone knows, and certainly underserving of any affection. I admittedly had only even dated their father in some pathetic attempt to punish myself. My husbands have never loved me; my daughters are only fond of the ways I spoil them, and the way I am kind to them when all others treat them like the spawn of Satan."

"I like them," Andy blurted out automatically, startled out of her crying. "They are charmingly mischievous, at worst. In fact, they've texted me sporadically ever since I gave them the Harry Potter books. We've had some good chats under the guise of them demanding homework help."

Miranda actually gaped at her. "If that's true, and I don't doubt that it is, you probably have a better relationship with my girls than either of their parents, or even their nanny, for that matter."

"If that's true, and I don't doubt that it is," Andy repeated, "I really do feel sorry for them—we don't actually talk more than once a week, at most."

"I should be so lucky," the fashion queen sighed. Pursing her lips, she leaned forward and tapped the card with a shining fingernail. "You literally can not let them encounter one hint about this, if you have the slightest fondness for them. They will have no trouble believing such a thing of me. I don't know what I can possibly say to keep you from writing about my ultimate cruelty."

"Even you own daughters would expect you to murder a child in response to genuine love?"

"Why do you think they don't love me? I am unloving and unlovable, trapped in my own horrible soul made of anger and hate." Miranda's hand spasmed into a fist, which she then consciously relaxed.

Andy turned off the digital voice recorder and left without saying another word. Nor did the woman she once work for speak again. She texted both Priestly twins. "I just interviewed your mother."


	4. In the Beginning

Author's Note: I'm probably not doing very well at naming chapters—I have this urge to go for all names starting with I, but I'm already really reaching for things that will work well. Also, I must point out that my characters thoughts, words, and deeds are not mine. Even before I was writing about Miranda Priestly, my characters have always been very forceful. I just go along with what they want.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Four: In the Beginning

_Andy turned off the digital voice recorder and left without saying another word. Nor did the woman she once work for speak again. She texted both Priestly twins. "I just interviewed your mother."_

Then she noticed that it wasn't quite yet noon. She wandered along the street, half blinded by tears, till the phone buzzed with a response.

"We're in study hall, aka our boring english class, using Caro's phone. How did it go? What did you talk about?"

"Wonderful things, terrible things," she replied, "I can't stop crying. She never does, does she?"

"What, mom, no, doy, not a tear," their response came quickly. "She insulted the crap out of you didn't she? We'll have a temper tantrum, Andy. What did she say to you?"

"Actually, she complimented me, several times. You would not believe, however, the things she said about herself. All the combined slurs used against her were nothing to what she said of herself."

"Yeah right, Andy. Mom may be the queen of insults, but if she trashed herself, we're getting real unicorns for our next birthday."

"That may be possible, I didn't ask," Andy typed, "oh, and please don't cuss when we text, as she now knows that we talk, ok?"

"Seriously? What part of interviewing somebody includes getting interrogated yourself?"

"It's been an odd day," Andy admitted, not sure what else to say.

"Yeah, and this is mom we're talking about. Andy, I bet you probably confessed without her even asking."

"You got it." Andy smiled, realizing that one of the girls had obviously snatched the phone from the other. "Look, is your mom secretly into fantasy or myths or something?"

"No way," the immediate text said, quickly followed by another, "except for that story of Eve and the Tree of Souls. Really a shoddy rip-off of the bible, especially for mom's standards."

"Can you tell me about it sometime? We actually talked about souls, which was totally insane, and not because I brought it up, that is for sure."

"Ok, we'll just go to the bathroom and call you."

"No, you are not skipping school. Call me afterward, sheesh, you girls."

"Fine, whatever, you spoilsport. We need practice to perfect our impression of nausea, you know."

They decided on a time slot in between various after school activities, and Andy continued to wander around the city, ending up in a random Starbucks, where she ordered a sub par muffin and excellent coffee and called it a lunch. At the appointed time, she found a secluded park bench and got her recorder and plugged it into her phone before waiting for it to ring.

"Ok, hi Andy, you there?" One twin chirped as soon as Andy picked up, before the other chimed in, "this is fun, we like never actually talk on the phone."

"Good. Hey, I want to record our call so that I can get the story right later, if you don't mind, girls."

"Sweet. Will it be quoted in your interview?"

"Probably not, unless your mom gives me permission. I just want to know for my own purposes, Cassidy."

"Hey, how can you tell our voices apart?"

"Dude, Caroline, I use your voices to tell you apart in person. What do you think?"

"Right, whatever, who cares if she and mom are the only ones who can tell us apart?"

"Shut up, Cass, we'll get her methods out of her later. Anyhow, mom only told us this story once."

"Yeah, after all that shit about her being a Jew who turned her back on her past, because people found out about her name change."

"Dad had just divorced her like, a year before that, too, and we wanted to know why people have to be so freaking mean."

"Actually, girls, I was interviewing her because of what I discovered when I went to check up on the research on that name change thing," Andy said with a grin the girls couldn't hear. "I went to the island that article said she was from, and everyone who could remember her said that she was a castaway who washed up on the shore with no name or knowledge of English. They gave her that Jewish name, and she went to London only a year later and changed it. I'm going to publish what I heard from those people, and I asked her about where she was actually from."

"Wow, who knew our mom could be so very mysterious. What did she say?"

"Your story first, my silly geese."

"Oh my gosh, you blackmailer!"

Andy was glad the little redheads couldn't see her wince at that. "Oh, come on, I wanna hear the story. I recorded what your mom said, I'm not about to forget it."

"Fine, whatever, Andy. So it started with a weird version of creation, then the souls, not—"

"Cass! Come on, we have to actually tell her the story!"

"I was going to sum up the facts and stuff, Caro."

"There aren't any facts in stories, doy."

"Touche, Caro. Then you tell it right, or whatever."

"There's no rush, girls, and please stop fighting. I'm perfectly happy to hear this in installments if necessary. I know you're very busy."

"No, we're at Dad's, there's nothing to do, anyhow."

"What, Dalton didn't give you any homework?"

"Blech, fine, you meanie. I'll do the stupid homework and you can copy it, ok, Caro? Don't even scold us, Andy, it's super easy crap."

"As the distraction, I suppose I'm not allowed to complain. Just don't actually photocopy it or something stupid like that."

"Haha, Andy, as if. Ok, so the story starts with God in the void of empty space, and feeling lonely. So he or she or whatever, starts making stuff like stars and planets, which are totally boring, so he goes to one planet and makes animals, which are fun to watch for like, you know, an hour on the discovery channel. So he makes mermaids and angels, but all they do is talk about how awesome he is, or how cool all the stuff he made is, which is majorly embarrassing after about one minute."

"I can only imagine that you are telling this exactly how your mother told it to you, word for word." Andy snickered, settling more comfortably into her seat.

"You know it," Caroline giggles, "especially the use of like, you know, and stuff, her favorite word. Anyhow, he wants something totally unique and interesting to talk to, so he makes a person. Adam, obviously. But Adam is only clay. He literally scorches from being around God, and has to sleep and eat and stuff. So they can't be together all the time."

"I'm not going to lie, that's a fabulous explanation for why God only visits the people in the cool of the evening, in the bible," Andy interjected.

"Exactly. So Adam gets lonely when God isn't around, and even God can't make another Adam, since he was made to be unique. Something about how making another one would unmake him because that is part of what he is, and God doesn't want to do that. Maybe he can't. So he makes Eve out of Adam, so she's got his uniqueness, which makes her different, but the same kind, or whatever people talk about when they say everyone is special. Somehow, though, this bending of the rules warps reality. Totally warps it."

"I'm impressed, Caro. Both by how interesting the story is, and how well you remember it."

"Yeah, well, mom's like that. She told it much better, and there's no way I could forget."

"True. I was more traumatized by interviewing her than by reading about the Holocaust when I was a kid."

"Great, now I know you actually won't tell us everything mom told you," the girl groaned. "Be glad I'm going to finish the story anyhow."

"I appreciate it, and promise to tell you everything unless your mom specifically told me not to."

"I guess that's the best we can expect. So, everything is warped—the tree of souls just appears, right in the middle of the planet God made for the people. God is wigged. The angels are wigged. One of them decides to stop praising God, and convinces a bunch of them to side with him. God figures the best he can do is to tell the people not to eat from the big freaky tree. I mean, why would they? Mom said it was this freaky black thing, like a cut out of space in the exact place Eve had been made, all twisty and taller than the redwoods, with glowing silver fruit, perfectly round and having this sickly sweet smell."

"Then the lead bad angel possesses the snake?" The brunette felt the need to see if the story parallels continue.

"Yeah, well, the angel doesn't think he is bad, but that God screwed up, and that getting rid of Eve will make things go back to normal. So he talks to her, and says that the souls will make the people like God. Eve thinks this is a pretty sweet deal. See, the people were supposed to be fruitful and multiply, like the animals, but they aren't. She thinks this is because Adam wants God more than her, and if she has a soul and is like God, then he will want her."

"Now that is an interesting twist on the original sin thing—I mean people have tried to say it was something about, you know, but they were all figurative about it," Andy said awkwardly. "So she wanted Adam, but he didn't want her?"

"Jeez, Andy, we've had sex ed, you don't have to be all stupid about it. Actually, she wanted God, too, but she wanted to please God by doing the multiplying thing, since there wasn't much else people were supposed to do. Adam, though was hearing all of this, and thought she had a good idea, so they split a fruit, instead of each eating one. This made them each get only half a soul, so they were even more lonely. Plus, they could now tell how unique they were, all those differences. They were all freaked by looking at each other, so they covered those parts, and just straight up hid when they heard God coming."

"And then, if this is a total knock off of the bible," Andy grinned, "they then proceeded to suck at hiding, by telling him about it."

"Of course they did. They were just little kids still, and that was why they couldn't multiply yet. God was really mad, and scared they would screw with the tree more, so he moved everything to a planet with out the tree of souls, and it wasn't as nice, because he'd been playing with making dinosaurs there. He moved them somewhere else, but the plants were still not as nice. That's why we only have dino bones, and there is the whole thing about the earth being cursed with thorns and whatever. And people couldn't seem to see God anymore because of the stupid souls, because of course the angel came up with about the exact opposite of what the tree of souls really did."

"Was that the whole story?"

"Well, yeah, everything else was more about what mermaids and souls were like. Especially the souls, cuz she was talking about how they make people act like jerks to each other, since they can't feel each other's pain because of them."

"Alright, cool, as she basically already told me all about that."

"Good. I still don't get that stuff well enough to explain. Cass could prolly tell you all that, facts style."

"Good to hear you are aware of each other's strengths, not just always fighting. I guess we should move on. So, about the interview," Andy said, "what exactly do you want to hear?"

"Hang on! Cass, get in here! Andy's gonna tell about the interview!"

"Why do you guys even bother with separate rooms, anyhow?"

"They gave them to us, along with enough crap to fill them both, so we need to store junk in them, at least. I'm sure you could imagine our closets."

"Nice of you to join us, Cass. As if you hate our stuff. Come on. Andy said mom talked to her about souls and mermaids."

"You mean the ones with no souls that only talked about how awesome stuff God made was?"

"Yes, exactly, Cass." Andy braced herself. "She was telling me about soulless mermaids because she was telling me that she was one before she washed up on that island and became human and developed a soul. She told me all about growing one."

"HOLY MOTHERFUCKING BATSHIT CRAZYTOWN!"

Andy found herself struggling not to be creeped at the thought of redheaded twins swearing in unison. "Talk to me, little geese."

"You mean goslings, sheesh," one said in a more normal, if faint tone.

"You want me to call you goslings, Cassidy?"

"So not the point, you big dork. Why would she say that to you?"

"I have no idea. She said her name was Mpalaysia before she had that Jewish name."

"Ok, so she like included details? It wasn't just some random remark?"

"Yeah, we talked all morning, actually."

"You said something about her insulting herself, too?"

"Yeah, Caroline. It was mostly stuff about how cold and unlovable she is, and how she deserves people being mean to her."

"Basically all the usual insults. I thought she didn't listen to that crap."

"You know she is a big liar, Cass," Andy pointed out, thinking of a certain hotel in Paris, "when she says she doesn't care what they say."

"Besides, she isn't unlovable. Anyone who says otherwise is a jerk."

"Do you guys ever tell her you love her, Caro, Cass?"

"Well, like, not really. She's our mom, she knows."

"Dude, we totally should say so, though."

"You should. I kinda bailed on her today when it got all weird, you know, when she got into the bad parts. I bet if you called her, you'd knock her socks right off, make her day."

"Alright, Andy. Thanks for telling us some stuff."

"You have to tell us more later. We'll call her now."

"It's cuz she hates November, you know." Then they hung up suddenly.

"They are so her kids. Not the slightest clue what the word goodbye is meant to be used for."

Andy let out an exaggerated sigh, and headed to her apartment to try to type something for her article. She struggled with titles, producing gems like "What's in a name?" and "Mysteries of Miranda," which are only slightly worse than what she produced to go with them. Of course, she made many references to the article that had inspired her research, as well all the quotes from Lambsly island residents. She included Miranda's comments regarding her fondness and rapport with foreign models. Andy pulled an all nighter, in fact, carefully crafting her comments about how Miranda had comforted her children with stories after the damaging criticism produced by the older article's allegations regarding her name change. She ended the article by saying "As for Mpalaysia, and who she was as a child, well, I prefer not to pass on facts I cannot prove."

After she emailed the mess to her editor, Andy slept for about a day, waking up only to report to her office the next morning, bright and early. The article had run that very morning, and she has always been under orders to be in the office when people might be calling in to ask reporters about their articles. Andy strolled into the main room of the Mirror headquarters only to find La Priestly herself, sitting on the edge of Andy's personal desk, Prada pump dangling off her toe as she swung her leg slowly back and forth.


	5. Intensity

Author's Note: Slash is now officially in the forecast. If it bothers you, stop now! If you are reading this story in hopes of finding it, I'm sorry there won't be as much as you would like.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Five: Intensity

_Andy strolled into the main room of the Mirror headquarters only to find La Priestly herself, sitting on the edge of Andy's personal desk, Prada pump dangling off her toe as she swung her leg slowly back and forth._

"I really can't imagine how this little rag continues to afford actual desks," the silver haired woman purred, "but I did read your little article this morning, and received a very interesting phone call last night."

"So here you are," Andy said, trying to ignore the instant dampness of her palms, "care to share why?"

"Well, I certainly don't intend to compliment your insipid prose," Miranda smiled slowly, eyes following the younger woman as she attempted to slide past the fashion editor to get to her desk chair. Suddenly she stood up, stepped forward, seized Andrea's neck with one hand, bending the brunette back over her other hand as it rested on the small of her back, then planting a kiss on in the classic dip position. The kiss included tongue, and was as hot as her traditionally searing cup of coffee. There was not a single eye in that room not glued to the two women in that moment.

Andy's hands flapped pathetically at her sides. Her eyes bugged out, and she literally slid out of the kiss as her knees buckled. The brunette staggered into her chair at the last minute before crashing to the floor. "What," she muttered, "what?"

Miranda tossed back her head and laughed in what appeared to be a genuine burst of mirth, her eyes sparkling. "You really are too adorable, Andrea. I thought you might like that. I'm sure I could make Emily pass out, should she ever endeavor to deserve such treatment. Do have fun with your chef tonight, darling."

As she began to saunter off, Andy croaked, "I broke up with him. I mean, he broke up with me. Moved to Boston, and now I have to pay his part of the damned rent, too."

"Oh?" Miranda turned around, an odd glint in her eye. "Should I weep for your loss, or not, Andrea?"

"Maintaining a size four is much easier without his cooking, and I can afford the rent, just barely," Andy grinned despite not being sure where their banter is going. "Don't you have minions to terrorize, or something?"

"You are the one detaining me now."

"I still can't fathom what brought you here in the first place. All the way here just to thank me in the most indirect and confusing way possible?"

"You do know how to make such an errand worth the effort," Miranda replied in her earlier purring tone, "but I really must go now."

Andy stared blankly after her former boss as she leaves, feeling farther out of her depth than at the beginning of her time at Runway. "What the hell was that?" She spoke to the room at large.

Her editor, Gary, stepped out of his glass-walled office. "The editor of Runway just came in here personally to buy enough ad space to cover your annual income, post tax, and then sat on your desk, waiting for your lazy ass to show up late, and then gave you a tonsil rub with her tongue. The hell kind of assistant were you, Sachs?"

"The kind she called fat and sent out to run errands all over the city and yelled at for not finding a witch that could stop a damn hurricane."

"The kind that get kissed might sell more papers than your limp article."

"Yeah, well, this was a first. Anyhow, the other option would have been printing what she actually said about her childhood, and I'd be blacklisted for life for writing the Miranda Priestly has lost her marbles article."

"Andy, even the story of whatever you used to get that interview would be great. The story of whatever insanity she told you would probably get you friends. Plenty of people hate that woman. What did she tell you that was so crazy, anyhow?"

"Greg, the last person I met who hated that woman was a fashion editor with less of a clue about hairstyling than me. Hardly a helpful friend. Anyhow, and you can quote me on this if you write the story, but the Devil in Prada is one hell of a kisser. I date guys and that was hot."

"Hot doesn't pay for that flight to England I sent you on."

"I've been working on an expose on the CEO of Elias-Clark. Embezzled money, manhandled models, some of whom I visited in London where they had fled to get away from his paws." Andy was perfectly calm.

"Sounds good. Proof that you are working for me, not her, would also be stellar." Her boss could not sound more sarcastic.

"Greg, $30,000 or whatever in ad space says you're working for her, too, my friend," Andy grinned.

"Girl, I am not your friend unless you get me that expose in time for the weekend editions."

"No problem," Andy chirped, and sent it in the next day after making a few final edits. The day after it ran, Andy found a card on her desk, and though it had no greeting or signature, Andy knew immediately that it was in Miranda's handwriting.

"Vogue is looking for a writer to send on a year long trip to all their supply sites to produce promotional literature and photos. Mention that you could get access to a list of our suppliers in your application, and they'll pay you to write an expose on their own sweatshops, darling. Emily has been authorized to give you the genuine list, and I will see to it that the truth is printed in any publication you choose, even if Runway is exposed rather than Vogue. I assume that this is the kind of thing you want to do as a journalist."

Andy called her immediately. "What the hell? Is this a weird prank?"

"I can't imagine what could have given you the impression that I am fond of pranks."

"Miranda, I have, in fact, met your daughters. They take after you very strongly in every other respect. Why should pranking be any different?"

"Your thorough destruction of Irv Ravitz deserves a very nice reward. I may expect my employees to simply do their jobs and please me with no further reward, but you are not mine, nor do I think your employer ordered such a thing."

"It was a public service to the world," Andy insisted, "but thank you, I suppose, for the tip about the job opportunity." She doesn't mention Miranda's information till she is invited to interview at Vogue.

"I see you've worked in fashion previously," the oily man smiled, "in what capacity? Model?"

"I was La Priestly's assistant," Andy mimicked his expression.

"We're not particularly fond of here here," he frowned, "so that gives me hesitations."

"Nobody at Runway likes her," Andy replied honestly, "except for a few fanatics. I myself quit rather spectacularly, but I'll admit I still have a few useful friends there." Her smile widened as she imagined what his reaction would be if he knew that Miranda herself was one of them.

"How useful?"

"The kind that could allow me to double the number of stops on this trip to include their suppliers. You saw what I did to their CEO. Imagine the expose I could run on Runway itself, if you will."

"Powerful friends, indeed, if that is true, Miss Sachs. I wonder, though if they would feed you a false list, especially if she ordered such a thing."

"You remember, I am sure, what the dragon lady did to her own art director a year or so ago in Paris?"

"Yes, Nigel somebody. What about him? He's still working for her, but everyone wonders when he'll have his flamey little tizzy over that."

"He's the one who dressed me for this interview, since we still go out for drinks on his few days off," Andy smirked, watching him make the connection she was implying. Oily had just bought her story, hook, line and sinker. On her way home, however, Andy got a call from a hysterical Emily, which of course was the first time her erstwhile coworker had contacted her since she'd handed over her share of the freebie clothing.

"Jesus Christ, Andy, I have no idea what to do. She is happy. I mean, literally walking around whistling and smiling at people when she startles them."

"And this is making you panic, Emily? Why?" Andy kept her tone as calming and gentle as possible.

"We've always feared her bad moods. But, we know what to do about them, unfortunately. Now, she is smiling at everything. I don't know if she can even edit. It's been going on for days now. Everyone was so happy when you nailed Irv, but it could all topple. All of it!"

"Maybe I should just swing by, see what you're talking about."

"Don't you have to go to Africa or something for effing Vogue?" Emily's tone could not have been more scathing.

"Oh, I have a week to buy tickets and pack. Besides, Miranda told me to do it."

"Why the hell would Miranda Priestly want you to work for Vogue? Why are you doing things for her, anyhow, you wretched girl?"

"She thinks I'm going to uncover sweat shops they are promoting, and wants me to find out if Runway is as sweat shop free as she seems to think it is."

"I suppose that answers one question," Emily huffed. "Why did you even go after Irv? Why did she let you, of all people, interview her?"

"Oh, Irv was an ass, so I couldn't help but look into him, and lo and behold, he had all kinds of the dirty laundry newspapers love to air. I blackmailed Miranda, and she still told me about 900 other insane things I could have never gotten printed. Then, she visited the Mirror, right after my interview ran, and did something even more insane. Half our staff of reporters, and the editor saw it with their own eyes, and none of them has printed one peep about it, which ought to tell you how unbelievable it was."

"So she's actually losing it? You're sure?"

"No, that's actually not what I think. But I will come by anyhow and see what you're talking about. Give me a paper copy of that list to explain my presence in the office."

Emily hung up on Andy as soon as she stopped talking.

"God damn that woman," Andy growled, "she's infecting everyone."

Andy sighed, and headed toward the Elias-Clark building. As usual, it is buzzing like a kicked hornet's nest, and Andy found herself having flashbacks, her palms sweating. "It feels so wrong to not have six hangers and two boiling cups of Starbucks when I'm here." Emily handed over the folder with a scowl, and as she was tucking it into her briefcase, when she heard clacking heels. Her 'Miranda is in the room' senses tingled, and when she looked up, Miranda glided in, humming and smiling beautifully. Andy's heart constricted at the sight, and she stared like a deer in the headlights, frozen.

"Ah, Andrea, I wasn't expecting you to come here personally. I assume you got the Vogue job, then. Good girl. Perhaps that little rag of yours will buy whatever travel stories you write on the side." The silver haired woman then swept past Emily to dip Andrea into another steaming kiss, tongue plunging deep into the girl's gaping mouth. She pulled back after a moment with a joyful laugh. "I knew I could make Emily pass out. And I didn't even have to kiss her to do it. How lovely," she smiled, and then breezed off as quickly as she came.

"I need a cheese cube," Emily's voice rose from the floor, "my diet is making me hallucinate now, along with the usual fainting."

"Unless your diet can actually make me feel like I'm being kissed, which I suppose could be possible," Andy replied dryly, "I'm pretty sure that actually happened. Besides, that's the second time she's done that to me. That's what I was talking about, when she was at the Mirror office. More people saw that one, actually. I don't know how a picture wasn't taken."

"Nobody could possibly believe it wasn't an edited fake," Emily groaned, "I mean, she kissed you. With tongue—I could see it."

"At least I can now say with certainty that her husbands could not have dumped her because she was a lousy kisser," Andy grinned at the incredulous Emily.

"What makes you say that?" Nigel has just arrived. "The tabloids and so on were full of their tales of her coldness in bed and everything else."

"Yeah, yeah, everyone knows she's the ice queen, Nigel," Andy said, "and I can only imagine she could be like that in bed, too, but her kisses are definitely scorchers. Dragon's breath. I bet they were just mad because she cut them off of that."

"I've talked to her exes, honey, and they said she kissed like she was trying to stab them with her steely tongue."

"Alright, fine, but I have her on recording saying husband number one was a punishment to be around. One can only imagine what she felt about Steven—I remember what an waste of space he was. And I can tell you, it was very hot when she kissed me just now."

"Six, sweetie, that's what we in the industry call wishful thinking. Miranda is as straight as a ruler. An iron one."

"I would say she's more like those steel straight edges you use to crop photos, the ones with the perfect ninety degree corner," Andy argued. "I however, am straight. I certainly do not daydream about Miranda. I date boys. I like dating boys. Besides, what you are really saying, Nigel, is that Miranda being a long time closet lesbian is about exactly as likely as Miranda walking around Runway humming and smiling or whistling cheerfully."

"Which she is of course doing," Emily moaned, "because the world is about to end or something. Oh God, why have I not gone to church since I left England?"

"I'm so glad I'm leaving the country for a year," Andy chirped, trying to ignore Emily's melodramatics. "It could be really great timing, all things considered. I'm going to go pack now. See you guys later."

"Lucky you," Nigel sighed, "have a good sabbatical, get those pesky hallucinations out of your system. We'll Skype you with any interesting updates. I knew you'd get that Vogue job."

Andy was in the airport a week later, waiting and browsing the internet when Emily skyped her.

"Well, the good news is, Runway will not go under because she is happy," the redhead said, looking pale, even for her.

"So, what's the bad news?" Andy waved her hand behind her vaguely. "Take your time, no hyperventilating, I have, like, over an hour to wait here."

"Everything we know about her is gone, down the toilet. I'm so damn glad I was already transferred to accessories, instead of being one of her poor assistants. Anyhow, we all just got back from some poor fool's fashion pre show, and I'm supposed to be eating lunch, and I had to tell someone."

"Ooh, story time. I love horror, tell me all about it," Andy grinned cheerfully, leaving out her thoughts on how appropriate it would be coming out of the mouth of a woman who was looking more skeletal every time Andy saw her.

"She sat there the entire time, twirling the end of one of her big necklaces around, with one of those little smiles on her face, the kind that used to mean absolute adoration, yes. Only now, she is always smiling at least that much, so I was nervous. But the poor idiot, he's just getting happier and happier."

"He actually thought she she was loving every single thing he made?" Andy was incredulous.

Emily nodded. "At the end, he brought out all the models so she could see the dresses at the same time, one more time. That's when she got up, and went down the line, and told him exactly what she thought of every single design. In detail. People used to be able to tell themselves she was irrational, that other people would like their work. It was worse, having her explain herself, Andy."

"What, was she laying down outright insults?"

"No, not Miranda. No, she was perfectly polite, and smiled, and eviscerated each design on a critical and artistic basis. It was horrifying, like the end of that movie where the guy was drawn and quartered, except that there were over a dozen victims for her to demolish. She talked about how bad colors looked with the skin tones of the models, how the fabrics were paired so they would tear on the seams, about cheap fabrics, clashing decorative elements, lack of thematic cohesion, boring repetition. It was like the judgement of God, exposing all faults to the light in a room with nowhere for the cockroaches to hide."

"As opposed to Satan sneering at whatever she happened to dislike, gotcha," Andy continued.

"Nigel had to call him later and talk him out of suicide," Emily said simply, "I mean, the man was literally out his window when Nigel called to see if he was ok."

"People don't usually react like that normally?" Andy was genuinely surprised to hear this.

"No, like I said, everyone is used to what Miranda was like. The avatar of fickle public opinion, which you just have to learn to adapt to. Finding out your art is actually garbage is another matter."

"Right, and now the whole game has changed, except of course for Miranda being hyper critical."

"Happy Miranda does appear to still be Miranda. Except for killing you with a smile, rather than pursed lips. It makes her seem that much more frighteningly psychopathic." Emily glared at Andy. "So, now you have to tell me what you did to that woman, to make her so damned happy."

"Not sure, honestly. I refrained from printing a secret of her's, but that doesn't exactly keep anyone happy for this long, or mean that nobody else could find out. I mean that should have only set things back to normal. Anyhow, why are you asking me again? Wasn't it just the Irv Ravitz article?"

"No, she was extra horrible between your setting of the interview and the printing of it, then immediately on cloud nine."

"The only other thing I can think of was encouraging her girls to call her while they were at their father's house."

"Ugh, seriously? I usually stay the hell out of her personal life, and as far away from her evil twins as possible," Emily groaned.

"I like the girls," Andy grinned, "they're good kids. Anyhow, I should probably pack up my computer so I can board."

"You are the insane one, if you think her spawn are anything but horrible." Emily slammed her own laptop shut.

Andy shut down her computer, slid it into her practical, yet almost trendy backpack, and boarded the plane to leave the country with plans for travel articles already brewing in her head.


	6. Interlude

Author's Note: This chapter will be told in a disjointed fashion, as far as time is concerned, yet nevertheless seemed logical to me. Feedback from those who disagree would be appreciated, as I don't actually have a beta reader.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Six: Interlude

_Andy shut down her computer, slid it into her practical, yet almost trendy backpack, and boarded the plane to leave the country with plans for travel articles already brewing in her head._

The plan, of course, was to make those articles as tantalizing as possible. She sent them back weekly, with hopes of drumming up interest in her final articles for Vogue. There were hints about visits to the great European fashion houses, up and coming designers in India or African countries, the clothing factories of China and Bangladesh, and so on. She sent boxes home, constantly. Some go to her parent's house in Ohio, labeled: "store in my room with the rest of my stuff, unopened." Others are presents for them, or for her friends. Lily and Doug, Nigel and Emily, Miranda and the twins all get presents. Even Nate gets interesting spices in the mail occasionally.

She comes up with several versions of her final work while on her long flight back home. One is a series of promotional pieces for Vogue, as ordered. Another is a set of similar articles for Runway, with plenty of spare photos in anticipation of Miranda's pickiness. She also comes up with a full, comprehensive expose to send to Time, Newsweek, the New Yorker, as well as a newspaper version, with short, long, and serial treatment of the information. Andy still thought her big selling point with Vogue, aside from the list, was that she had majored not just in journalistic writing, but photo journalism. She had convinced them that it would be cheaper to send only her, with camera and writing equipment, rather than an entire team. "I'll use local models for regional flavor," her resume had said. So she had gotten an uncensored, unsupervised trip. Andy had gotten the truth, and Vogue would soon learn not to repeat such a hiring decision.

Andy sent all of her files Miranda for editing, including cover letters for each publisher and a schedule for the most advantageous release dates. She felt certain she would need Miranda's help in determining how to keep Vogue from being able to cover things up, suppress her expose, or sue her for everything they had paid her. The silver haired editor had torn her writing to shreds, but seemed other wise delighted with her work, and her comments were nothing if not utterly helpful. Between the time her plane landed in New York, and the day Andy had completely moved into her new apartment, Vogue's reputation, along with several clothing companies, had been dragged through the gutter furiously, and Miranda was revealed as some kind of saint in the world of fashion.

Even Andy still couldn't believe the conversation she'd had with the plant manager of a certain mass market fashion company's biggest factory complex.

"So," Andy had said rather unimaginatively, "do you give tours like this often?" She honestly couldn't imagine him answering yes. It's honestly the worst she's seen. It's a clearing in the middle of nowhere, with several large, windowless metal buildings, each with four floors of sewing machines and other equipment crammed into places that should have only two, with high ceilings. She presumed that the nearby shanty town houses the workers, as there is little else for miles, and that the adults working in the lesser buildings are these children's parents, but Andy was almost afraid to ask. There's only room in the largest building for child workers, though even they have to climb over the machinery to get to their posts. All of these buildings run without closing, day and night, so when there is a shift change, the children trade off with their replacements with the machinery still running as they climb over it.

"Every year or two, we get Anna Wintour over from Vogue, and of course some of the company higher ups do inspections every year," the manager shouted over the roar of the machines with a smile as they inched their way around the edges of the building on the inside, as the floors don't go all the way to the walls. "We've been inviting that bitch in charge of Runway since she cut our company out of her ad line up, but she always reacts like we've suggested she go on a cruise to a leper colony."

"Imagine that," Andy replied, hoping he wouldn't hear her sarcastic tone for all the noise. It's not a bad comparison. She really expects to see somebody's finger falling off any moment, either way. "When did she cut your company out of her ads?"

"Back when she took over at British Runway when she was 22," he scowled, "and she kept the same policy at French Runway when she was moved their, and now Runway New York for the last 25 years had never shown one spot for us. It's terrible."

"But she's never come to visit your factory? She doesn't know what you do, what it's like here?"

"I've been in charge here the whole time, so I would know, and she hasn't a clue, aside from the samples we send her, of course." He showed her a picture of Anna Wintour standing outside the main factory building with him, which he keeps in his office. "I keep replacing it with a new one whenever she comes."

"Would you mind giving me a copy of this most recent one, and maybe one of the oldest ones?"

"Actually, I'll give you the Vogue cover from 1980 we were one, and this one. I keep the ones she signs in a binder. Do you think Vogue will publish this one with your piece?"

"I'm not sure," Andy grinned darkly, "but now I'm inspired to take a picture of us in the same spot. Do you ever open those big doors? They look like something on an airplane hangar."

"That's exactly what these buildings were when we built them after the Vietnam war. Usually we never open them, since they there would be a big draft, but if you want a shot with it open, I would be happy to oblige. For Vogue."

Vogue did run the picture of Anna Wintour with the clean cut looking manager in front of the spotless factory exterior. The Times ran the one with Andy standing next to the open door, which revealed scores of skinny children hanging off the densely packed machinery to wave at the camera, only one week later.

"You must have many stories to tell, working at this place for so long," Andy said in her most detached professional voice. "Do you mind telling me any, or if I get our entire interview printed anywhere?"

"No, no, I would be honored," he smiled as he shook her hand while the camera flashed automatically. "You have my permission. Take all the pictures you want, as well."

Andy could scarcely believe her ears, even knowing that he had obviously lost connection with what the rest of the world would consider reasonable. Now she was safe from anyone saying she got any of this terrible information covertly. He was proudly sharing this with the world.

"Can you tell me why you keep inviting Miranda Priestly here? What's special about your factory?"

"Well, this whole section here, staffed with the children is where we do detail work." He grabbed a shirt and shows her the embroidery. "The company has tried to replicate things like this with machinery, or adult workers, but you just need small hands to do work like this. Isn't it beautiful?"

"I see what you mean," Andy managed, wondering how she was managing not to puke all over the place. Although, this might explain how Miranda could just tell what was happening here without doing more than look at a sample in the closet. "Can you tell me one good story you'd like me to share with the world about your factory?"

"Well, I know everyone in the fashion wold talks about how Anna Wintour and that Priestly woman are trying to out bitch each other."

"Yes, although I wouldn't write off Jacqueline Follet of French Runway," Andy agreed, "she even has a bone to pick in house."

"Well, I always think these visits here bring out Anna's softer side. She used to always bring a huge bag of candy along to give to the kids when she came," he said.

Andy could feel her skin crawl, she was so certain this would be very bad. "Really? Why doesn't' she do that any more?"

"Sadly, I had to ban it. You see, she used to toss it up to the kids while they worked so they could catch it, or chase after the pieces. It was a great game for them, something of a break."

Fabulous, Andy thought darkly, at her softest, Anna Wintour treated children like zoo animals or trained monkeys.

"Anyhow, one year, one of the children went after a piece that had landed on that machine right there, and got completely tangled up in it. We had to shut down operations for an entire day, just to clean out the mess."

"The candy caused that much of a mess? What kind was she giving them?"

"No, the kid did when he got caught. We were pulling out chunks from all over the machine, and had to clean the whole factory from the splatter," he sighed. "It didn't' matter how much I had warned them about how to safely climb over that portion, he just reached right in for that dum-dum."

"Pretty ironic kind of candy," Andy muttered as she tried to keep the bile down as long as possible. "Do you have a bathroom I can use?"

"Sure, I have one here in my office. Can't have kids slacking off all the time by having one in the factory, could we?" He grinned at her with complete cheer.

Andy was just barely able to make it to the toilet to hurl, the running sink disguising the noise. This interview would get printed, word for word, along with an unedited, and very widely heard podcast. She could only hope this bastard would be arrested, though she suspects things like that get complicated by international laws and border issues.

"So how long did you say shifts were here?" She tried to get back into interview mode with a normal question.

"Oh, we have 12 hour shifts. We tried eight hours, but nobody could agree on when each would start and end, so now hours are 12 to 12, so nobody loses all of their days or nights."

"I can't say I'm surprised by that," Andy admitted honestly, in a faint tone. "Your tour was unimaginably enlightening."

Andy found it painful, however, living in that time between her return and the day all of her articles had been printed. For one thing, she was apartment hunting in Manhattan. The rest of her problem was the feeling of being a Jew escaping the Holocaust before everyone knew what had happened. She wasn't really able to talk about what she had seen, and although sweatshops and child labor were hardly new concepts, she still felt dirty. Andy felt vaguely traumatized, and her silence during the waiting felt like a betrayal of those who had truly been living in the terrible situations she had only seen. She stayed with Lily for a while at this point, and her friends were constantly grilling her about everything.

"Honestly, Andy, how did working for Vogue compare to working for Runway?"

"I can't really compare the experiences, Lily," Andy sighed, certain she had answered this one before. "I was a traveling, near independent reporter for one, and the editor's assistant at the other. I could better compare Vogue to the Mirror."

"Sure, fine, but which magazine do you prefer, then?" Lily is insistent.

"Anna Wintour may be the kind of cuddly woman who throws candy to children," Andy grinned darkly, wondering if Lily would recall this conversation when her interview got printed, "but I'm actually far more proud to have worked for the stubborn bitch who never put a single ad for one particular fashion brand in any of her magazines."

"How the hell could Runway not have ads for any fashion house? Which one? Why would she possibly want to, anyhow?"

Lily is helping Andy go through old clothes, and Andy pushes a stack of shirts made by the brand in question. "These have to go—I'm not wearing anything by them anymore. You'll have to wait for my article to find out why I agree with Miranda's insistence on cutting them out."

"Oh, come on! Look at these! I love their stuff—I mean, this shirt, which I've always been jealous of, by the way, Andy, is freaken gorgeous."

Andy had to fight back sudden nausea as her friend held up an embroidered shirt just like the one the factory manager had used as an example. "Uh, yeah, that's exactly what she hates. You can take all of them, I guess, if you want them." She wondered how her friend would react to the photo of a skinny little boy hunched over a nearly identical shirt, needle in hand.

"Seriously?" Lily has been speaking through Andy's distracted silence. "What is it, she likes ugly fashion? You aren't even around her anymore, and she made you hate an entire brand of clothing. You have got to get over that woman. She's toxic, Andy."

"You make it sound like I was dating her, not working for Miranda."

"Your slavishly adoring worship of that woman was obvious and way out of normally appropriate work relationships. Admit it, Andy it was so obvious. I mean, compare the hours you worked for the Mirror, which paid a living wage, and for Runway's pathetic stipend." The short haired woman shakes her head. "God, she certainly didn't give a damn about you, either. Get over her."

Andy thought back on the last week of her travels, and all those emails on the plane, when she had sent everything to Miranda for pre-editing before sending her work anywhere else. She considered how quickly the silver haired woman had always responded, despite the time difference that should have had her in bed at the time. "She never asked any employee to do something she was incapable of doing. Same goes for anyone else she interacted with."

"Andy, she asked you to do the impossible, multiple times," Lily sighed.

"I happened to succeed the second time, so that couldn't have been actually impossible. I've since thought of how I should have handled the hurricane situation, too." Andy grinned at the thought that she wouldn't even need a sea witch, either.

"Right, so you are great, I know that, my friend. But I've never heard of that woman doing anything amazing. Just criticizing everyone else."

"Fair enough," Andy smiled, setting aside a box and getting comfy on the couch. "Let's give unpacking a rest, if you're up for a bit of Andy story time."

"Woo hoo! Andy story times are the best," Lily cheers, shoving her pile aside.

"Now, I will admit that I am not telling a story from personal experience," Andy began, "but instead a carefully researched story, found by other journalists than me, about five years ago. This is where I began my own research into La Priestly."

"The tale of how she became a grade A bitch? Not sure I want to hear that one, Andy."

"Don't be silly. This is about a sixteen year old girl arriving in London after spending only the past summer learning English from her boyfriend. She's never been to school in her life, and has just changed her name for the second time in the last year, trying to leave her past behind her. She has learned how to read and write for the first time in any language at the same time as she learned to speak English, by the way. So the girl gets a job cleaning the corporate offices at Runway Britain."

"Bullshit! There is no way that this is how a story about Miranda Priestly begins." Lily scowled.

"I interviewed her first boyfriend, who was phenomenally unaware of what she'd changed her name to, or even what Runway was. He was full of hilarious stories about her, like how she didn't even know what a pencil was when he met her, and how fun it was to teach her English. Said meeting her and having that summer together inspired him to go into teaching."

Lily gaped at her smiling friend. "You're telling me Miranda Priestly had made it to age fifteen without so much as seen anyone write before?"

"You got it exactly. Now she's editing my writing. If that isn't impossible, tell me, how about this? What age would you say she could have been when she had finished working her way to the top at Runway Britain?"

"God, I have no idea. She'd be doing GED classes or whatever the British have, too, I'm sure, which would slow down even the most ambitious psycho."

"No way, Lily, she's never so much as taken a french class by mail. The chief editor of Runway has never darkened the doors of any classroom, at any level, and hasn't got a single certificate for completing a class, let alone an actual degree. She hasn't even paid for a class she didn't bother to take afterward, nothing. She took over Runway at 22, and did so well that they demanded she come reorganized French Runway two years later, because she was doing so well. She did that in a year, and for the last 25, she has been the living avatar of Runway in the US. So there are very few people she doesn't have a right to look at with contempt. Hell, she speaks French like a Parisian, on top of it."

"Damn it, Andy, that is impossible. Parisians don't even speak like normal French people, so nobody can learn that shit."

"I met people from French Runway when I was in Paris. They all told me that they wished she would come back, so that they could have a native Parisienne in charge, rather than a provincial frenchwoman, aka Jacqueline Follet. And I know her first boyfriend knew enough french to determine she didn't know a word of it. He didn't teacher any, though. She managed to learn that on the side while taking over British Runway."

"Seriously, Andy, this is the most mythic story you have ever told me. I can barely even believe she is fifty, let alone the rest of the story."

"Technically, as Miranda doesn't actually have a birth certificate, she might not be fifty. She's definitely within a few years of it, though, one way or another." Andy smirked. "You would really never believe the story she told me about where she came from before England."

"Andy, what could possibly be harder to believe than this story, parts of which I have already read in the news, and can double check the rest of it against her records?"

"That's my point. You don't believe the verifiable truth, so you'll never believe what isn't. I can't believe what she told me, except."

"You totally do," Lily groaned. "You'd believe anything that woman told you."

"Well, it would help if I had gotten her to tell me her believable backstory. Hell, I might as well ask her for it right now." She grabbed her phone immediately and dials Runway. "Oh, hi Emily! Why are you answering phones? Can you tell Miranda I have a final question related to my interview with her last year?"

"There is no way," Lily sneered, "that she is going to—"

"Hi Miranda. I was just wanting to hear your believable backstory, since I buzzed out on you so fast last year, that's all."

"Isn't she in the middle of her workday? I don't even take your calls when I'm at work! Why would she do that? Doesn't she hate you?" Lily's eyes were wide with shock.

Andy ignores her in favor of nodding and making hmm noises. She closes her phone with a snap after Miranda finishes and hangs up. "Apparently she is Dutch South African, and had a head injury that caused her some amnesia, which is why she told nobody anything about herself besides her name, when she was tragically shipwrecked, losing her entire family, a repressed memory she has only recently found." Andy laughed, "which of course I take to mean that she learnt fluent Afrikaans, and visited South Africa She didn't even bother to come up with a name for the yacht that sank. I've researched, and in the whole North Atlantic, during that year, there wasn't a single wrecked yacht. They check in fairly often to ports for supplies. I bet you anything that when I research South Africa, there will be no missing anythings for that year, either, whether I look at ships or families. Besides, Afrikaners all know English, and have good educations."

"I don't think any of that even registered with me, as I can't get over the fact that she took your call just now," Lily muttered.

"She told me she's from South Africa."

"No white kid from South Africa could possibly have less education than the Somali refugee whose art I'm featuring, or less exposure to English than my Yugoslavian landlady," Lily replied automatically, clearly aghast. "If she'd been locked in a basement her whole life, she would have never been able to learn any language, ever."

"She said she had amnesia from a head injury during the ship wreck that I have found no records of ever happening, and I've seen her medical records. The neurologist had given her a CAT scan when she appeared—they were new, and it was a big deal, so people remembered, even though I couldn't see the records. There was nothing wrong with her."

"Nothing could possibly make sense of that. So let's switch to the story of why she took your call."

"I can't tell you. I'm not even going to tell you what she told me was the real story, and she never told me to keep that a secret."

"Girl, you know I have enough persistence to get it out of you, so you better give me a hint."

"I can't give you a hint without giving the whole thing away." Andy goes back to working on her boxes. "Lily, you are nowhere near being the most demanding person anymore, and you even know who I'm talking about."

"So why doesn't she want the other story to be a secret?"

"Honestly, I think she's hoping I'll publish it and look like an idiot. Especially since what she really cares about is nobody learning what allows me to call her like that and get answered. Which, oddly enough, may be one of the most ordinary parts of her life. Consider that your only hint."

"Right, God forbid the fashion icon of the world be normal."

"Indeed, she does live for being extraordinary. The dragon's scales mustn't tarnish," Andy grinned.

"So, basically, what you are saying is that you blackmailed the queen of fashion. I had no idea you were capable of such a thing. You think anyone else is going to figure out the dirt you have on her?"

"Nope, I heard it from a woman in a nursing home. She died before I left the country." Andy paused, suddenly astonished at herself. She had totally bluffed Miranda Priestly, whilst being held at gunpoint. Granted, not a situation she expects many people have been in, but, still. Perhaps she would do well in gambling, if she wanted to try. "Should Miranda ever discover that fact, however, I have no doubt that she will personally kill me and burn all of my possessions in case they include said information. I'm being literal, here, we're not talking about my reputation."

"Yeah, I can just see it, the fashion mavin, white hair blowing dramatically as she waves around a gun, probably some vintage silver plated revolver," Lily laughed hysterically.

"It looked like a police issue glock to me," Andy replied automatically, in a bland tone, "and she definitely knew how to use it, too."

"Whoa there, girl, you might just be in over your head. I mean, that's the kind of event people normally use as blackmail material."

"Reporting on that scene would enhance her reputation," Andy points out, "anyhow, I really need to come up with my next big journalism project thingy. I like road trips. Maybe something about youth in US prisons. Call it something like Wasted Potential, Ignorance in the Heartland."

"No resting on your laurels, eh?"

"I haven't got any yet. This is only a foot in the door, assuming it goes over well."

"You planning on giving up the apartment search and leaving, then?"

"No, I just found a place. Paid the security deposit and everything. It's embarrassing having to leave my stuff at my parent's place. Besides, I'm going to take short trips at first. God knows there are plenty of prisons around here. I'll keep my home base here, so I don't have to drive all the way to Ohio to get stuff anymore."

"Road trips will require driving, too, dork. You don't have a car either way."

"Eh, don't bother me with technicalities. I could come up with reasons to move to L.A."

"You know that would hurt you more than it would hurt me," Lily laughed. "Or should I quote from your New York is a publishing mecca rant?"

They called it a day after that, and Andy was jogging in the park the day before her biggest article was going to come out. Suddenly, she was tackled by a gigantic dog that she quickly recognized as Patricia, the Priestly monster. Shockingly, the Saint Bernard's ineffective walkers are the twins and their nanny, Kara.

"Hey goslings," Andy grinned as she crawled out from under the fur ball. "I almost forgot it was Saturday. I was just going to ask you dorks how you managed to escape school."

"Dork yourself," one redhead sneered dramatically. "Mom says your article is going to be front page on the Sunday Times."

"Astonishing, isn't it, Cass. I'm surprised she talked to you guys about anything as mundane as me."

"We aren't guys, either," the other twin rolled her eyes. "Anyhow, mom didn't tell us anything important, like what it was about."

"Leaving me with the terrible chore of telling you, Caroline," Andy grinned, "I'm shocked—don't you usually get stuff before it comes out? You know she has a copy of it, right?"

"We don't want to read it, we just want a summary, duh."

"Gee, now I think I won't tell you, you little meanies."

"Whatever, Andy, you suck at lying. You know you want to. Anyhow, we're more interested in interrogating you about other stuff."

"Yeah, like your interview with mom last year. We're almost fourteen. There's no way you can expect us to actually believe our mother was born as a mermaid."

Andy was pleased to note that the nanny had gotten out of earshot, trying to play fetch with the lazy dog. The girls flanked her, pulling on her hands. "Skepticism only sounds smart, goslings," Andy said mildly. "I don't want to believe the impossible either, but I did a lot of research on other possibilities, and couldn't find any that were any good."

"Just cause you can't prove a negative doesn't stop people from declaring a species of animals extinct, either." The girls were not to be dissuaded.

"A species needs a viable population. Even if there are live animals hiding somewhere, there could easily not be enough to sustain numbers," Andy will not be out argued by tweens.

"They keep finding new species, though."

"And some of them are endangered when found."

"Whatever. How did your research not find other options about mom," the other twin has clearly tired of hearing the argument.

"Well, Caro, no ships sank anywhere nearby, she didn't know any European languages, and she didn't come up with any other story to give me. Literally, she just told me a few days ago, something vague about South Africa. Still no last name, or anything normal. For crying out loud, she had never seen a pencil before England."

"Seriously? I bet native of the Amazon have pencils and have heard somebody using English."

"A mermaid washing ashore, however," Andy pointed out, "wouldn't have. Anyhow, why would your mom tell me anything so ridiculous if it wasn't true?"

"Maybe because she actually can lie, you know, unlike you, Andy."

"Generally, that does require a believable lie."

"You do believe it, you big dork. She probably was just trying to see how big a load you would believe if it came from her. The real question is, why did she agree to the interview in the first place?"

"Yeah, everyone knows she never does interviews, and you never said how you talked her into it."

"Gotta love how you guys waited a year to ask."

"What, on Skype, while you were in Somalia or something? Besides, she probably just wants to date you. Buttered you up by doing it."

"What? What on earth would make you think that?"

"We heard about Emily fainting, and weaseled the truth out of her. She got us the security tape footage of you guys kissing at your paper and at Runway."

"And we know she got you the Vogue job, too."

"She never contacted me between the time I left her in Paris and the day I asked for the interview, or while I was overseas." Andy wasn't sure how to process this information. "If she wanted to date me, why would she have sent me out of the country, anyhow?"

"Prolly hoping to get over you, dork."

"You have answers for everything, don't you, my silly geese?" Andy tried to keep her tone light, even as she felt some kind of panic growing inside herself.

"Doy. So, your article? What's the what on that?"

"Always so demanding, you Priestly women. Should I indulge such brattiness? Oh well, wouldn't be the first time. Vogue didn't want the truth, but the world shall have it anyhow."

"That is the worst, and least detailed summary ever, Andy. Are you trying to force us to read your boring long adult article?"

"Seriously, you guys, that is like the definition of spoiled. I suppose, thought, I should go for it. I mean, actually reading about children working in sweatshops as forced labor is too shocking for kids like you to read."

"Whoa. That's what it's about? What about Runway, mom, our clothes?"

"Apparently, your mom can tell that things are made in child sweatshops just by looking at them. I mean, she can't avoid regular sweatshops, though places that use those traditionally are her least favorite brands, but she never features anything made by kids."

"How can she tell?"

"I think it's the delicate embroidery, like that shirt on the billboard over there."

"Wait, so that's why she never gets us anything by them?"

"You got it, gosling. You know your mother would never fail to spoil you without a very good reason." Andy smiled at them. "Here comes Kara, so it is probably time for you to go. Adios!"

"We'll say hi to mom for you, Andy."

"Whatever, Caro, as if she can't just call mom if she wants to say hi. Honestly, you are absorbing Andy's dorkiness."

"Have a good one, goslings, and be nice to each other," Andy grinned before jogging off.

Nigel takes her out to dinner on Sunday night to celebrate the article, on Runway's tab, he claims. All her friends come along, too, but he pulls her aside for a personal word.

"Miranda wants you at the benefit gala this month, Six. I'm supposed to dress you."

"Why on earth would she want me there, Nigel?"

"You are the up and coming thing, Andy, and Miranda is always interested in the up and coming. Also, you did do Runway a massive favor."

"Fair enough. I should, in that case, get a proper invite, though, rather than simply get ordered to attend like one of her minions, no offense, Nigel," Andy insisted, "and I can dress myself."

He looks her over and rolls his eyes. "Really? No offense yourself, Six, but I'm not inspired to believe you, at the moment."

"I brought back nice things from my trip, and the gala ball thingy would be a perfect time to use them. Don't protest; you're wearing my presents now."

"It is your night," he demurred, "I don't wear them all the time."

"Not all of it, but that belt shows signs of wear. Admit it, I can't screw up with freebies from fashion houses, at the very least. In fact, Miranda herself might be jealous of my dress."

"Impossible." Nigel finished his drink and clunked the glass down definitively.

"I'd be willing to bet on it. What would you wager?"

"Chanel has a new version of those thigh high leather boots you liked so much. With brass buckles."

"Ooh," Andy rubbed her hands together, "whatever do I have to equal that? A florentine leatherworker reserved five, buttery soft calf skins to make into a trench coat, tailor made as soon as I can come up with a style I want. Alternate measurements could be sent."

"Six, sweety, even I know that would top my offer."

"Well, I would expect you to buy those boots for me yourself, not just filtch them from the closet."

"You are so mean, Andy. Fine. I want to hear Miranda actually say it, though, you can't just tell me she was jealous. And I'll tell her you dressed yourself, and wouldn't even let me check it ahead of time. You win, I'll design your jacket for you, on top of the boots."

"Certainly, Nigel. I want full credit for what I wear."

"I'm already thinking about what I want that jacket to look like on me, mind you. Wagering it was a stupid choice. There is no way you can win," he grinned at her. "Even if she was jealous, Miranda would never admit it."


	7. Impossible

Author's Note: After I read this chapter to a friend of mine over the phone, he demanded that I type it up and share the whole thing with the world.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Seven: Impossible

"_I'm already thinking about what I want that jacket to look like on me, mind you. Wagering it was a stupid choice. There is no way you can win," he grinned at her. "Even if she was jealous, Miranda would never admit it."_

Andy's dress was made out of countless scraps from the Hermes scarf factory, and sewn for her by one of the women who worked there. It has a handkerchief skirt, obviously, and fluttery short sleeves slit open to the shoulder. The bodice was fitted to her well enough that she had been assured she would not need a bra. In fact, she was given strict orders to wear no panties, either, for fear of lines. All she puts on is the dress, leather sandals with straps that twine up her legs, stopping just above her knees, and a little clutch one of the other ladies made for her out of scarf scraps as well, which is designed to tie to her wrist, so she can't loose it. She arrived early, with few noticing or greeting her, and began to circulate the room, chatting, before running into Nigel and Emily as they waited for Miranda's arrival.

"Where did you get that wretched patchwork rag?" Emily sneered. "There's something oddly familiar about it. Could it be made of all the dresses Miranda has ever shredded for failing at fashion?"

"I wondered if you would recognize anything," Andy replied with a smile. "You're so close, and yet so very far."

"At least the bag matches," Nigel offers, a gleeful smile glowing on his face. "Not like that will help you at all."

Then Miranda glided down the stairs, and greeted several nearby admirers before snatching a champagne flute from Emily. She was about to take a sip when she noticed Andy. With knuckles whitening on the glass stem, she circled the girl like a shark, her eyes rendering the brunette nude under their piercing gaze.

"Your dress cannot possibly exist, Andrea."

"It was specially made for me," Andy demurred, sipping her own champagne with a dry mouth.

"No, no, impossible. If I have demanded such a garment and been refused," the silver haired woman fingered the sleeve of the reporter's dress, "and yet..."

"I didn't ask the corporate office. It was offered to me by the workers," Andy smirked.

"A gift? And clearly tailored for you? Andrea, surely you must know that such a garment is beyond price. You have no idea what I would be willing to trade to have this dress, or even that bag."

"Perhaps I'll let you have it as a display piece should I ever become unable to fit in it," Andy replied.

Miranda finished her champagne in one swallow, eyes never leaving the form in front of her. "I'll send you chocolates every day to speed the process up. Twirl."

"What?"

"Let me see you twirl in it, Andrea."

Obediently Andy twirled, trying not to let the skirt, which was quite loose and clearly designed to move freely, from rising high enough to flash everyone. She was vaguely aware of Emily's disbelief and Nigel's confusion in the back ground. "I knew you would like it, Miranda," she admitted.

"I"m hardly impressed by your ability to perceive the obvious, Andrea. What I can not comprehend is how the Hermes designers could refuse to make something like this for me. Their scarves are practically a requirement for my personal style. It's sickening. I haven't been jealous in at least twenty five years," Miranda snapped, and walked away in a furious huff, the stunned Emily struggling to follow after her wake.

"You've earned those boots, Six," Nigel concedes in an awed tone. "That was unbelievable. I couldn't even recognize what you were wearing, on top of it all. I don't think I even need to offer to dress you anymore."

"It went exactly as I expected," Andy replied, "except for the twirling part."

"I'm going to have to start calling you Alice when you hit six impossible things," Nigel grinned, "how many are you at now? Three or four at least."

"Don't be silly. This and the Harry Potter book makes two impossible tasks, as declared by Miranda."

"Her hiring you was definitely impossible, as well as the way you walked away from her. Don't forget to count those."

"Hiring me was one of Miranda's deeds of impossibility. And besides, people quit all the time on her, especially assistants," Andy said dismissively.

"They don't get good recommendations when they do."

"Sure, but that's still something she did. As were those kisses. I will never understand any of that."

"You did something to cause her to do that, Six, and you know it."

"I'm not counting it, Nigel."

"What about getting that interview last year? Nobody's done anything like that in twenty years."

"I can't imagine why nobody else found the way to do so before me. Once I did, my course of action was obvious, not impossible."

"I can't get over the way you seem to know her better than I do," his tone went cold, "when you worked for her one year, and I've been at Runway for fifteen."

"What makes you think I do?" Andy was truly puzzled.

"You know what is obvious to her. I only know what is obvious to me, and that she seems to like my tastes." He frowned and finished his own champagne. "Why didn't you publish whatever you had on her when she gave you such a limp bit of material in your interview?"

"Nigel, she told me everything I asked for, including more details on my blackmail material. I didn't write about any of that, or the article would have been amazing. Tell me, Nigel, if Lois Lane was a real journalist, and she knew Superman's alter ego, what would keep her from writing a tell-all and finally getting that pulitzer?"

"He was invincible, immortal. I don't know if he even needed to sleep. I never knew why he even bothered with that other identity," Nigel muttered, "who would be harmed by her story? Any other superhero, sure, but not superman."

"What if kryptonite was a secret, not something all of the villains knew about, and she knew that secret, and could have published that?"

"I suppose the public wellbeing would depend on nobody knowing that," Nigel sighed, "but nobody depends on Miranda, though. She will retire someday, or Runway could fold, and everyone would carry on as normal."

"Not everyone," Andy could only smile faintly, "and to be honest, what I know couldn't touch her position at Runway, as far as I know. All press is good press, after all. Vogue won't fall from my articles, and these places I visited will even go on operating now that the truth has been exposed."

Nigel stared as Andy walked away, leaving the ball, as though she had only come to incite Miranda's jealousy, and he realized that he didn't know his pet Six any better than Miranda, after all. He collected another glass of bubbly, and looked for his boss, and wondered who wouldn't be able to carry on if the icon were tarnished, but not enough to be out of Runway. Any other woman, he would assume her children were Andy's concern, but those girls had a father they saw often, and generally seemed to be colder than even their mother. "Andy left the ball," he reported to Emily and his boss.

"That wretched girl has no concept of networking," Emily groused, "or a proper sense of gratitude."

Miranda smiled one of her normal, enigmatic half smiles. She had long since returned to her normal state after the previous year's terrifying month or so of the gleefully wicked version of herself. Nigel and Emily had rejoiced copiously after La Priestly had ceased to float around Runway humming merrily, as had everyone else. Being killed with a smile had been beyond unbearable for all.

"Andy won't even blackmail properly, either," Nigel intoned, sotto vocce, to Emily, "I even asked her why she didn't follow through with her threats."

"She's a bleeding heart," Emily snorted, "I'm sure the girl was only bluffing. I still can't believe she actually even had the gall to try to blackmail Miranda. Honestly."

Miranda disengaged from her current conversation, and turned to her whispering assistants with a silvery laugh. "Andrea has the soul of a poet. She never respected me till she saw my weaknesses, and yes, I do have some. All of her greatest strengths look like failings to both of you, and so you will never know why she can do the impossible, though she always will. Call the car, it's time I leave as well. That's all."

They gaped, and scurried after her, like remoras feeding off the shark they fear, Emily fumbling with her phone in hopes that Roy was near with the car. Nigel was dazed with his own thoughts, unable to understand when Miranda bonded so closely with her former assistant, or what she meant by a poet's soul—everyone means something different by saying the same thing. Andy had always struck him as a passionate crusader, not some emotional, disconnected poet. Her writing had purpose, and she has plenty of strengths that could have contributed to her acts that have so astonished him. "Andy has never written a poem in her life," he said to his bosses retreating back, "I asked her once, while we were having drinks."

The fashion editor let out the same silvery laugh as before. "I'm sure she also assured you she loves men as much as you do."

"You can't make her a lesbian by kissing her, Miranda," he sighed. "You aren't even a lesbian, either."

"Send her that chocolate she likes. Small boxes daily, Emily. I shouldn't have to remind you deliveries will need to make it through Andrea's door, rather than languishing in her mailbox."

"Yes Miranda, I'll tell Madison what kind to send," Emily mumbled as she reached for the pen and paper in her clutch."

"And see to it that whoever planned this event has their eyes looked at, or something. I've never seen so much unnecessarily tacky gold décor. That's all."

As she walks home, Andy turns back to watch them depart—Miranda in one car, minions in another. She knows they are talking about her, though she can't hear them. The next morning, Andy ate her breakfast while watching the news. Anna Wintour and Miranda Priestly have each finally issued their own video soundbites in response to this little expose of hers. Both were hilariously catty. Anna's clip appeared first. She said that, "it is her job to display the world's premier fashion," and that, "any choices the companies have made in regards to production were their choices, not those of Vogue, and none were illegal in the countries where they operated." She also referred to Andy as being naïve and sensationalistic, as well as no longer employable by Vogue. Andy copied down her quotes for use in the reference section of her resume and online profile. Receiving such insults from somebody like her will look complimentary to anyone she would want to work for.

Miranda had actually let the studio interview her the night before, briefly. She said that she has, "never seen her role as being a simple reporter of fashion, but instead the gatekeeper of fashion. I choose who will make it, and who will fail," Miranda had purred, "and I can afford to turn down those whose fail to find creative alternatives to abject cruelty in production."

"Some people have defended Anna by saying that most brands use sweatshops, or that Anna couldn't have known how most of the clothes were even made," the interviewer said in a perky tone.

"I would expect any employee of mine to be able to successfully conjecture that you are wearing Victoria's secret lingerie based on your visible wardrobe, and that they could tell me exactly when last year you bought each piece of outerwear," Miranda continued in a velvety tone, "I expect myself to be able to look at a garment and know if it displays work done by child workers, or the kind of shoddy work done in truly terrible conditions by overworked employees in the worst sweatshops. Anna's difficulty with the same task is hardly my concern."

"It's the spring intimates collection from Victoria's," Andy muttered to herself automatically as the blonde in the newsroom gaped at Miranda. "You can totally see the lace design through her back to school season Abercrombie camisole." The clip ended only because the woman seemed unable to ask Miranda any further questions, after hearing her dismiss the editor of Vogue as some kind of idiot, and demolish her own outfit. Andy suspected this is one reason Miranda rarely gives interviews; not because she never granted them, but because everyone had learned to fear questioning her in any way. Andy herself has almost no urge to interview Miranda again.

She's started seeing strange things out of the corners of her eyes, and completely lost her sense of skepticism. Oh, she can still generally tell if a person has lied, but now she has a hard time disbelieving crazy things. She's started going to church again; it had always been her parent's thing, and something she'd dropped like a hot rock after leaving home, but now Andy wondered about God, along with many other impossible or mythic things. The word impossible was either losing its meaning, or applied too broadly for her to actually believe things could fall into such a category. For God's sake, she's about ready to believe that the Cotswold fairy hoax was only done because the real ones were too fast to catch on film back in those days. Miranda has made her loose her mind.

She went jogging again, trying to clear her mind, and was of course tackled by Patricia. Currently a freelancer, she can go jog at whatever random time she wants to, but half of the time, she still gets ambushed by the massive dog. She hasn't figured out the right schedule for avoiding this, but at some times, it is a professional dog walker, other times the twins and their nanny, or one of Miranda's endless procession of second assistants. This time, to her shock, it was the woman herself.

"Arret, arret," Andy scolded the dog, pulling herself up from under the Saint Bernard by her collar. "Why you had to be trained to only understand French, I will—Oh, hello, Miranda, this is a surprise."

"I refused to believe the twins when they said she couldn't be kept from doing this to you," Miranda replied, "and so they were grounded from walking her. I suppose now I should punish myself."

Andy grinned as she brushed dog hair off herself. "In that case, I suggest letting the girls order something horrible from Pizza Hut, and eating it with them whilst watching ate least one movie they want but you would hate."

"How very efficient of you to suggest I combine my groveling and punishment, Andrea."

"Well, you know me," Andy said, and started to tuck her jostled earbuds back into place. "I'm still essentially astonished by the whole nanny thing. I had you pegged as the paranoid type to have switched to bodyguards."

"I'm too paranoid to be unaware of the difficulty of finding staff that cannot be bribed and thereby become a liability," Miranda demurred, "but of course the girls have complained about still having a nanny. I suppose they encouraged you to broach the topic?"

"No, they've figured out that I hate when they whine about you. It really was just a simple observation," Andy sighed. "Look, have a good one, alright? I'll be off."

The instant Andy turned to leave, Miranda grabbed her elbow, and yanked the girl back into a fierce kiss, before calling Patricia to heel and leaving the gasping Andrea in her perfumed wake. Andy can't jog anymore after that, and has to walk home in a haze of confusion. Why does the woman keep doing that to her? How can it affect her that damn much? Her legs were shaking, she was in a loopy state that reminded her of the post coital rubbery legs from an actual quickie. These were just singular, random kisses. From a woman. And God, she's never even liked this woman. Andy still can't believe herself for not publishing that blackmail. She may have the secret of Miranda's kryptonite, but in turn, the woman herself is her kryptonite. Andy was powerless around La Priestly, and what's worse, she couldn't figure out why. On top of that, Miranda clearly knows exactly what to do to her.

Nigel had the boots delivered to Andy's apartment, along with a binder full of snazzy designs for a woman's trench coat. He obviously was concerned she would brag about it, if he brought them in person. There was also a surprise invite to the twin's birthday party, in Miranda's own handwriting. Andy decided to show up in the Chanel boots, which earn her an appreciative look from the fashion editor, and envy from her children. As the townhouse was crawling with fourteen year old girls, Andy didn't linger long after handing over her presents. Miranda, however, followed her out to the front steps.

"Are you so desperate for a break from teens that you would consider a conversation with me to be a moment of pleasant adult company?"

"To be fair," Miranda replied with a genuine smile, "there isn't as much high pitched shrieking as when they were smaller."

"I believe kindergarteners are the champions at that," Andy agreed. "I forgot to tell you last time how much I enjoyed watching your little TV appearance."

"I thought you hated how cruel I can be." The smile was replaced by skepticism.

"There's a difference between betraying a friend with no notice and the deliciously bitchy and accurate barbs you adore making. Your TV spot was brilliant. Even I could tell she was wearing one of the lacy demi-bras from the spring collection, and I was out of the country when they were new."

Miranda tossed her head back with laughter, the silvery tones making Andy shiver. Miranda dipped the brunette into an unusually long kiss, their bodies shockingly close together, one of the older woman's hands on the back of her neck, under the long hair, and the other caressing the Chanel boot, fingers curled behind a knee she has pulled up into the air.

"Thank you for stopping by, darling," Miranda purred into Andy's ear as she pulled back. "Roy will be here in a moment to take you home, Andrea."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Andy's whole body throbbed with something like aftershocks, and she was distantly aware that when she had given directions to her apartment that Miranda would know where she lived now. But, of course, he already knew, and Andy remembered the tempting chocolates that keep appearing in her apartment. The next morning, she was awoken by a call from her parents.

"We saw the paper," her father said, by way of greeting.


	8. In Print

Author's Note: In order to make up for my very long gap between posting ch. 5 and 6, I spent more than three hours typing yesterday, and am doing the same today. I appreciate that nobody left impatient comments during my hiatus.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

Chapter Eight: In Print

"_We saw the paper," her father said, by way of greeting._

"Richard, she's obviously just woken up," her mother scolded him as Andy mumbled with confusion.

They're obviously doing that thing where they ambush her, her mother on the kitchen phone, her father on the one in the office.

"Andy, sweetheart, there's a picture of that Priestly woman kissing you." Her mother's voice was tight.

"There were videos on the internet," her father nearly shouted, "two videos, each from a separate event, plus the pictures from last night and one other event."

"Well, crap. I thought Emily would have gotten those erased before anyone could see them. The videos were from before I went abroad."

"Andy, what's going on?" Her mother was more concerned than angry. "Are you having an affair with that woman? Did she harass you when you were working with her?"

"No, nothing happened back then. The tape from the Mirror's office was the first time she's done this. I have no idea why she keeps kissing me. I never started any of it."

"It looked pretty intimate, Andy," Her father growled, "the way she was holding you last night."

"Hang on, I want to see," Andy grumbled, and staggered out to her door, where the paper has been delivered through her mail slot, along with another damned box of chocolates. "Wow. I love the way my hands are just flopping around awkwardly out to the sides. Truly, I could not look more passionate," she said sarcastically.

"Andy." Her father was suddenly apologetic. "Do you want us to help you press charges, or sue her or something, for assaulting you? You know I can't represent you myself, but I could send one of my partners, or contact somebody in New York who could handle whatever caliber of lawyers she or that magazine keeps on retainer."

"No, dad," Andy sighed, looking out her window and peephole to see if the paparazzi have gotten her address yet. "Just promise me you won't say a word to the press if they find you. I haven't talked to Miranda yet, about why she is doing this, or how the press found out now, rather than last year. I will be pissed if this is just some publicity stunt for Runway."

"Andy, aren't you angry about this being done to you anyway?" Her mother's raised eyebrows can be heard over the phone.

"No, I'm confused. I've never heard of Miranda being anything but straight like me."

"Well, good luck getting to the bottom of it," her father said after a long pause, where nobody seemed capable of saying anything. "We should go let you do that."

"Give us any updates you want us to have, alright, baby? We've never had to find out anything about your life from the papers before," her mother said. "We love you."

"Yeah, thanks guys," Andy tried not to sigh as she hung up. Once she was properly up and dressed, she called Miranda's office. "Hello, whoever this is. This is Andy Sachs."

"This is Morgan. Miranda is out. Are you Andrea?"

"Nobody calls me that but Miranda. Why do you ask?"

"Miranda said you would be calling to confirm your dinner meeting with her at the townhouse. Roy can pick you up at six from your apartment."

"Perfect," Andy grimaces, astonished at the presumption, but pleased at the chance to talk. "Tell Roy that will work, and I'll see him them. Thanks Jessica. Say hi to Emily for me."

"I so can't, Andrea," Miranda's assistant said, "and you wouldn't want me to if I was allowed to."

"What happened?" Andy was astonished. Emily had been promoted recently. Her star was rising in the world of Runway.

"Oh, she had to work late last night, while I was waiting for the book," Morgan said, "when the vultures called to see if Runway wanted to issue a statement about the pictures they'd just taken of you and Miranda, along with one they'd gotten from somebody who'd seen the two of you in the park."

"Boy, they're fast," Andy groaned, "why was she on the phone with them?"

"I was fielding a call from Valentino at the time, and figured she knew more about it than me, anyhow, once I could tell what they were talking about with her," Morgan replied unhappily. "Anyhow, she had them email her the pictures, and then said they were pretty lousy quality compared to the video footage she had. They negotiated a price for them, and she sent them over. I couldn't stop her, but I could report her."

"Are you kidding me? I considered her a friend!"

"Anyhow, after that, she got on the phone with Vogue, and got a job with them in the layout department. I've managed to get a replacement for the assistant job lined up who is able to stay late no matter what so both of us can man the phones, but Miranda is looking for somebody to take Emily's place in accessories. I'll probably have to find somebody else, because Steve is already angling for Emily's job."

"You hired Miranda a male assistant?"

"Obviously—can you think of one gay boy you know who wouldn't sacrifice a testicle to work here?"

"The equivalent of saying this is a job a million girls would kill for," Andy giggled. "Thanks for telling me about Emily."

"No problem. Hey, do you want in on my betting pool?"

"On what?"

"How long Emily will last at Vogue? You have to be very specific, by the way."

"I'll go with giving her a year to get promoted to a position where she's working directly for Wintour, and a month after that to get fired."

"Nice," Morgan said, "you know Nigel, right? He says she'll go five years there, like here, with no promotions, and then do something idiotic and quit before she can be fired for it."

"What's Serena's take on things?" Andy can barely remember the blonde make-up artist, but thought that perhaps she was close to Emily.

"Pissed as hell," Morgan said cheerfully, "she'd been trying to get into Emily's pants for years, and now it won't happen. You, Emily, and Miranda are the only women at Runway she's never gotten in bed once. She's really good, by the way, but not much for actual relationships. Good thing I just wanted to experiment, right?"

"Whoa there, that's way too much information, Morgan," Andy doesn't even know this new assistant yet. "I have work to do. Put me down for twenty on the Emily thing, thanks, bye."

To be fair, she does have work to do. Sadly, however, she was unable to focus on it. Roy took her to the back door of the townhouse, as the front was swarmed the the paparazzi currently stalking Miranda. The twins are the ones who meet her at the door, bubbling with excitement.

"This is so cool having you over!"

"Yeah, I'm pretty stoked you and mom are finally dating." They spoke at almost the same time, smiling broadly.

"Is that what your mom said, or are you just inferring from the paparazzi pictures?" Andy tried not to show alarm.

"Dude, Andy, we told you we knew about the kisses before."

"However, she's never had anyone over for dinner unless it was serious."

"So she didn't have to say you were dating. We aren't retarded."

"Ok, I'll keep that in mind. Was your party last night a smashing success? I didn't stay long," Andy asks, trying to distract them.

"Girls, there's no need to overwhelm Andrea with your chatter," Miranda said pleasantly as she arrived to usher them all to the dinner table.

"Yeah, whatever, mom, she asked."

"Casside," Miranda scolded, "language."

"Mom, whatever is not a bad word." Caroline got a severe look and a raised eyebrow for her efforts.

Andy snickered as they all sat down.

"Shall I scold you, too?" Miranda's tone was almost flirtatious, which terrified Andy.

"I could ask you the same thing, Miranda," Andy replied cooly. "There is a difference between four kisses in two years and actual dating, unless rumors about you are more accurate than I thought."

"I'm aware of that." The fashion icon was completely composed. "We'll talk about things after dinner, however, darling. I hope you weren't planning on leaving immediately for some reason."

"I know better than to make plans when you obviously already have done the planning."

"Does that mean Caro and I don't get to find out what's going on tonight?"

"Casside. I have no intention of leaving you girls out of the loop. However, there could be nothing to tell before I have spoken privately with Andrea."

"Mom, everyone wants you. It's not like Andy isn't going to date you if you want her."

"Yeah, look at her blushing. Honestly, mom. Just tell us what you've decided. You already know we like her, so you don't have to break us to the subject or anything."

"Yeah. We get to help you redecorate if she moves in. That's all."

It's a spot-on imitation of her mother's tone, and Andy couldn't help but let out a little laugh, which she quickly stifled once she realized how hysterical she sounded. The girls don't seem to notice, but Miranda shot her a sardonic look. After that, the conversation strayed into more neutral topics, like politics, and Andy was calm until the girls excused themselves and Miranda led her into the same study they had spoken in, nearly a year earlier.

"I thought it would be best for you to see my daughter's assumptions before we had this conversation," Miranda sighed as she sat in a comfortable chair and motioned Andy into the one across from her. "Feel free to ask, however."

"Why? Why have you kissed me? Repeatedly."

"Because I wanted to, simply put."

"Why have you wanted to, then?"

"For the same reason that Captain VonTrapp wanted to kiss Maria, I suppose," Miranda breathed out, looking away from the brunette.

"I don't play guitar like your dead wife," Andy tried for humor, not knowing how else to deal with such behavior. "Nor have I dressed your seven children in old curtains, and I am not a conflicted nun."

"No, but you have cared for them when others hated them and considered them terrors. You have given them back to me, as she did for him, so I could feel the love of my children as I had not in many years, Andrea," Miranda's tone was wistful, almost distant, "you are young, and lovely, and more conflicted than you think you are. I cannot resist you, though I suspect you would cast me as the baroness, and still await your captain."

Andy is stunned, sitting there, feeling as though her heart is breaking. It is that night in Paris all over again, though Miranda is clothed and armed with her makeup. She yearns to comfort the older woman, but fears to at the same time. Miranda does speak with the same resignation as the baroness, when the noblewoman had said of the Captain's love for Maria, that there is nothing more lovely or attractive as a woman in love. Miranda has never been more breathtaking, and Andy supposes this is her roundabout way of saying she is in love with her. The younger woman doesn't know what to say, or do, or even how to feel about this revelation, her power over the editor. Miranda Priestly, mourning her love for Andrea Sachs, the reporter who once tried to blackmail her. It doesn't seem right, or even possible. "I am confused. Stunned, and uncertain," Andy admitted, "what do you want from me, Miranda?"

"Everything. Nothing." Miranda rose to her feet suddenly. "You are informed. You must decide. I cannot demand."


End file.
